


You Got The World, But Baby At What Price?

by toucanpie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Peter is 17, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toucanpie/pseuds/toucanpie
Summary: The village had many rituals and being chosen as a son was a great honor. Peter had longed for the day he would be taken in and taught the ways of his fathers.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	You Got The World, But Baby At What Price?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



> Title from Million Dollar Man by Lana Del Rey

Peter's fathers had given him many gifts.

\---

The first had been the gift of their love.

On his seventeenth birthday they had chosen him from a group of twenty to be their son. Peter had stood out in the courtyard with the others, barefoot in freshly washed clothes, and they had walked up and down the rows and singled him out. One of them had cupped his chin and tilted it up and the other had ruffled his wet hair. He could no longer remember which had been which, only the hot weight of their eyes on him. Then they had asked him his name, and he had told them, and they had each in turn whispered their names into his ears and he had become theirs for as long as they chose to keep him.

Not the first that they'd selected for a trial in their house, but the only one they'd kept beyond the short period required. The only one, they said, right to fill the hole in their household and their hearts.

\---

Their second gift to him had been their tutelage.

His father Steve was a woodworker and he took his afternoons with Peter every day, showing him the way of his workshop. He had wide, strong hands, and with them he showed Peter how to hold each tool, how to measure lengths of plank with soft tape, how to scrape fine curls of wood with a chisel to make delicate patterns, and how to sand his finished pieces with rough paper. He was sparing with his praise, but when he spoke words of appreciation he always meant them, and he put each of Peter's early works for display on a shelf, even though they were clumsy compared to what was already there. 

When he wasn't pleased he would go quiet and frown, staring into the distance until Peter had fixed his mistake. But even when Peter's missteps hit double numbers he never spoke in anger. Instead he pulled splinters from Peter's fingers with gentle kindness and let him wash off his sweat each day under the cold tap beneath the back porch, keeping watch from the doorstep for anyone who might come by and cast their eyes over Peter while he undressed.

His father Tony had no profession that Peter knew of. He built things, but not houses or saddles or milk churns or cloth. He'd built the weather-vane that sat atop their house but he had only ever built one and refused to do so for anyone else. He'd built the lantern that hung in the courtyard on winter nights that was fuelled only by fumes and burned brighter than any candle, but he had built only one of them too. With Peter he was building a bridge. Together they would walk a haphazard path through the wood each morning until they got to the river than ran the other side of the trees. There they would put down their loads on the bank and wade through the chest-high cold water to look at what they had constructed the day before and whether it had stayed where it should over the night.

Tony's instructions were rarely straightforward. Somedays he had Peter stay on the grassy bank and name an object for every letter of the alphabet, over and over again until he ran out of both objects and words. Only then would Peter be allowed to ask what would make the bridge stay up when it had no pillars. Other days, Tony would have Peter hold the loose ends of each support beam, standing in the water with him while he slotted the other end in place and nailed it firm.

\---

Their third gift to him came in the shape of the stories they told.

They spoke of war and famine, of the greed of men with great power. About the boys before Peter who they hadn't loved as much as him, as he was better. Those were the stories that Peter enjoyed the most because they always finished with the touching of the mantel above the front door, where his name had been carved between both of theirs.

When he lay quiet and alone on his low bed at night, waiting for the hours to pass, that was the story he used to comfort himself. That of all the other people they'd trialled to fill their gap, he was the one they'd decided to keep, the only one worthy of being their son.

And when he couldn't sleep, wishing that time would pass faster, he thought of the care with which they'd carved his name. Peter. A word that had once meant stone, Tony had told him. Something that lets water rush over it but which stops assailants in their path, Steve had said. Something strong enough not to break under pressure. Something that could be used to build great things. 

Like a family, like the three of them. Stone. Strong.

\---

Their fourth gift to him was their touch.

Twice a week they dragged in a large wooden tub from the storeroom and heated hot water to fill it. Then they would help him into it and wash him down with soft cloth and soap until the floor around the tub was damp with suds. One of them would lather his hair while the other would gently scrub the dirt from under his fingernails with a small brush. They would rub his feet if they ached too, pressing their fingers into the spots that hurt and holding the pressure until the tenseness eased off and he could flex his toes without pain. 

Then, when he was clean and ready for them, they would help him out the tub and guide him to kneel on a towel on the floor.

While the last of the warm water slid down his skin to fall to the floor, they would unwrap the set of ivory cocks they kept stored in a dark red cloth.

They were cold and smooth to touch, both exciting and fearful to look at. One of them would trickle oil over whichever piece they had chosen for him, the other rolling it back and forth in his open palms to make sure it was well-coated. Then they would help Peter lean forward so they could position the cock behind him, ready for him to sit back on.

From there they would touch his shoulders and his arms and his face and whisper their encouragement as he took the thickness of it inside his body. If it was a small one, he would be able to rock back and forth on it smoothly with them holding the base still for him. On those occasions they barely ever had to take his hands in theirs to stop him touching himself, so easily could the pleasure inside him build.

To take the middle ones he sometimes needed help. They would have to guide his thighs apart and trickle the oil between his cheeks as well as on the cock. Then they would rub at the muscles of his thighs and his back with their scented and slippery hands until he relaxed just enough for the tapered tip of it to slip inside him. From there they spoke soft praise in his ears until their words overwhelmed him and he felt a hot heat starting in his gut. If telling him that he was the thing they cherished and valued most in the world wasn't enough, then they would have him hold their shoulders and they would lift his legs off the floor until all his weight was over the cock and he had no choice but to slide down it every time he breathed out.

Once it was fully seated inside him it was his duty to ride it, and keep riding it, until he came to his completion from the feel of it alone.

On some days his pleasure came quickly. When their touch in the bath had made him hot and his pulse was already fast, those days were easy, and he longed for the feel of them guiding the cool ivory deeper and deeper inside him. Other days his body was less obedient and it was hard to bring himself to an end. It would be what felt like hours before fluids spurted from him and his thighs would tremble and burn until he could finish and take their kisses on his forehead in congratulation.

On one occasion they had chosen the largest cock of the collection for him and it had taken him half a candle before his body had loosened enough to allow him to ride it. They had stayed with him throughout, whispering into his ears firm reminders of his duties as it stretched him beyond anything he had taken before. They had helped him to bear down when he thought he couldn't anymore. When his body had finally let out its release he'd almost fallen over, but they'd caught him in their arms as the shivers overtook him and held him tight as he'd sobbed through the strange and extreme pleasure.

\---

Their fifth gift to him was a page of instructions for the building of a sturdy bench.

His hands had shaken finely as he had unrolled it, knowing that it was to form a part of the winter celebrations in one month and the significance of that fact. It was his task to construct it entirely on his own, a test of whether he had learnt all the lessons taught to him. 

For the first two weeks he worked on it in the afternoons alone, forgoing the familiar companionship of Steve in the workshop. When his chisel slipped, he tended to it himself and tried not to think of other hands carefully holding his instead and soothing his pain.

In the second two weeks, when the lazy autumn heat of the afternoons slowed his work, he swapped to working in the mornings.

Somewhere in the third week they stopped dragging the tub inside the house for him and sent him out to bathe under the porch in the cold water instead. 

The way they looked at him changed too and their questions about his progress grew firmer. Sometimes, blushing under their stern gazes, he was sure that completing the bench would bring him to a new level of their regard. That they would deepen their love and reward him for his efforts by finally kissing him on the mouth and placing his bed closer to theirs. Other times, lying awake in the dark with his skin feeling grimy between his toes, a creeping fear took him over. That they would find what he had made wanting and send him back to the courtyard to stand with the others again. Or worse still, that they would punish him in front of the whole village, the way he had once seen the son from two houses down tied to a post outside and beaten with his mothers' belts.

\---

Their sixth gift to him was a half empty glass of wine.

He had returned from gathering kindling from the field to find his bed absent from the corner of the kitchen were he slept. His feet had frozen and rooted themselves to the floor like the stone he was named after as fear had crept through him.

Then Tony had tapped impatiently at the full tub they must have dragged in when he was gone, signalling where he was wanted. So Peter had undressed and stepped inside the water and slowly relaxed under their touch. They took longer than normal cleaning him and his skin wrinkled at his fingertips. They didn't give any of the careful praise they usually did, but nonetheless Peter's body grew restless for what usually came next.

Yet when they helped him out the tub, they had laid no towel on the floor but instead draped him with a soft velvet cloak, barely brushing their hands against him even once as they fastened the clasps at the front.

Tony had stopped his questions with a warm hand against his mouth and Steve had shook his head firmly when Peter had reached out to clasp their hands.

They told him solemnly that with the change of the seasons came a change in the hearts of men. They told him that it was his turn to submit himself to those he loved most. Then they gave him the choice of a private ritual, for those who were scared to show their love, or a public ritual, for those who weren't afraid to let the world see their devotion.

He was devoted, so it was an easy choice.

And when they offered him the glass half full of the blood-dark liquid he drank it and let it light a burning path down his throat all the way to his stomach.

\---

Peter's gift to his fathers was to lie face down on the bench that he had built them.

They had draped it with the covers from their own bed so it was soft and smelt of them. It was tilted upwards at one end and that was where his body was folded in half, his legs dangling down and held spread by his fathers' hands.

His own hands were tied loosely behind his back, wrists looped twice with a soft length of fabric that would come free if he forgot himself and struggled. His world was also dark because he had chosen a blindfold for himself to show the extent of his trust. 

The cold air of the courtyard prickled at the skin of his bare back and sides as they rubbed their fingers between his cheeks and made him slick and messy with oil. Then one of them pressed up against him with not ivory but the warm slippery head of their own flesh, impatiently seeking a way to enter his body.

The hands holding his legs pulled them further apart and he cried out unexpectedly as his body started to give way. Where the ivory had been smooth and tapered, his father was blunt and the press of him felt rough.

His eyes stung with tears as oil trickled deeper inside him, the thickness of his father's cock pushing it in, burning as it went.

The crowd of people watching murmured in approval and his father groaned loudly, squeezing one of Peter's cheeks. No-one touched his face or told him he was the best and finest thing they owned. No-one kissed the tears from his cheeks or rubbed his peaked nipples to help him swallow the pain down.

But strong sons were tempered by pain and strong sons gave of themselves so that their fathers might also be strong, so Peter hid his face in the softness of his fathers' bedding and choked his sobs down.

By the time his first father was done and the second took his place, Peter's body felt clammy and his brow was hot with sweat. The first push inside was easier. His skin prickled all over and underneath the ache he welcomed the way it pushed inside him, aided by new slickness. As rough thrusts pushed him forward on the bench his cries changed to moans and his hands shook behind his back. The ache of his shoulders and stretched rim gave way to an intense sensation that made his own cock begin to swell and feel sensitive and tight.

Someone said his name, guttural and soft, and he spread his legs wider of his own accord, stretching his toes as far out as he could. The thrusts that split him to his core sped up, the murmurs from the crowd growing louder as they did. Peter's own gasps filled his ears, mixing with the noises of the crowd until every breath was a cry of approval.

The pain seemed to temper itself and burn away as he sunk deeper and deeper into the pleasure. The audience started to chant as he sobbed, twisting his fingers around each other to try and keep his hands together when they threatened to slide apart. The sensations inside him grew stronger, like a seed taking root. His father's cock seemed to grow hotter and hotter and the slap of his hips against Peter's skin faster and faster.

He wanted to rut down into the soft covers but his body was no longer his own. Each forward thrust pushed him hard against the bench, forcing his cock into the thick fabric that smelt like home. He dreamt it was one of his fathers, holding him tight in a velvety grip, whispering their soft words of praise into his ears.

The fire in his gut stoked and then flared huge and terrifying. He came, shaking as his hips twitched and his release painted his parent's bedding. A darkness swam across his mind, pulling him down into a deep well of pleasure. It tossed him around on currents of sensation, making his body quake so wildly he was sure he would fall to the ground. Then the feelings ebbed, the bench morphing into a soft bed that wanted to swallow him up and smothering him gently.

He let himself drop.

\---

He didn't fully come back to himself until they were halfway to the house. He was wrapped in the cloak they had given him and cradled in Steve's strong arms, his head resting against that wide chest. Tony's hand was in his hair and he stroked Peter's curls silently as they walked the dim path to their home.

 _I am theirs_ , he thought, understanding now why his low bed was gone from the kitchen. The pleasure from before seemed to come back at the thought of it, making his toes twitch. 

He was theirs to lie between them in their bed. Their Peter. Their son. Bound to them forever through his devotion and their love.


End file.
